


What We're Good At

by charlottemadison



Series: The Longest Night [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), But they don't say I love you or anything there's no big declaration, Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gay Sex, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Tattooed Crowley (Good Omens), The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Touch-Starved, Wall Slam, Zip flies were definitely hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22592488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottemadison/pseuds/charlottemadison
Summary: That night at Crowley's flat, continued. Crowley and Aziraphale have solved Agnes' riddle, practiced swapping forms, and talked all night. Aziraphale ponders what Crowley means to his story.Can be read alone, may be better paired w/previous work, https://archiveofourown.org/works/22352164++++In one motion Aziraphale picked him up, easy as scruffing a kitten. A belligerent, unwieldy kitten with terribly long legs wrapped around his waist. A kitten with a multilingual swearing vocabulary being put to good use."You do not fight fair! You unmitigated eternal bastard! Put me down you preposterous -"Aziraphale obligingly dropped both arms, but Crowley clung to his torso like a flustered tarsier."I didn't mean - don't **drop** me, you great lummox, you're supposed to -""I'm supposed to?" laughed Aziraphale. "Supposed to what, serpent?"
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Longest Night [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546606
Comments: 248
Kudos: 1048





	What We're Good At

**Author's Note:**

> First ever smut. Quaking in my boots. Be kind. @charlottemadison42 on Tumblr.
> 
> Like the rest of the series, this is meant to be real time, mundane, character-driven, and all about physical embodiment -- as well as very very slow. Slow is good. Slow's real good. There are things the body knows.
> 
> If you rec this fic note that this chapter is E, all previous installments are T (can be read as ace), and each story can be read independently tho they're better together. The series starts here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21454282

In the Beginning was the Word, and the Word was with Her, and She was the Word.

The angel Aziraphale had always been a creature of the Word. He loved Her, as she made him to. He most especially loved language, narrative, the ineffable story of creation She unfurled before him.

Unfortunately the story took a turn.

When first it came to pass, the angels thought it was a dark third-act twist in the plot. A disaster. An erasure. A defection. Apparently some characters rejected their own story, denied the storyteller.

Pain was born. They were cast out.

_(Not out of the story, as they had perhaps desired. Just out of the nice part. There was no escaping Her Word and Her meticulous worldbuilding, not really.)_

The poor angel was confounded and afraid. The family was fighting, and the joy he took in Her plan was not universally shared. It was not a good feeling. He was new to understanding what feeling-not-good meant. It was terribly unpleasant and had a surprising amount to do with the lower intestine.

Just after the Beginning was the worry.

And the worry was with Aziraphale, and the worry would be with Aziraphale forever and ever. _(Amen.)_

His particular strain of worry had no antidote. He was an angel of love and loyalty, made for appetites and moments -- and he was not blessed with much imagination. So Aziraphale seldom fretted about what might be. Rather, as a creature of the present, he worried because he sensed that _all was not well._

Since he was inarguably right about that, he found no peace except in short spells of denial. Every celestial hones their coping mechanisms.

_(Aziraphale sipped cognac and considered the consequences of his own.)_

As it turned out, The Great Rebellion and the War were not the rising action and the climax. They were merely a prologue. When time itself began, Aziraphale looked back over his newly corporeal shoulder in surprise: all the eons before had collapsed, somehow, till they fit merely 'In the Beginning.' From the Eastern Gate he witnessed Genesis chapters two and three, and he felt the heady inertia of a vast not-at-all-well future uncoiling into the dark.

Hours later, with a dizzying jolt, he learned he was no longer a reader but a _character_ in the story. He gave Adam and Eve a flaming sword: light, heat, meat, murder. Deadlier than any apple. He made an impulsive decision that somehow _changed_ Her plot. That should not have been possible -- should it? How had an innocent angelic spectator become entangled in the living Word?

When She asked about it, he lied and She withdrew. She left him alone with his worry.

But She left him something else too.

_(Or allowed him to stumble across it, or meant to prevent it and got busy, or somesuch. It all came out the same in the ineffable wash.)_

Soon after Aziraphale made his very first bewildering choice, he was approached by the champion of choice itself: a wily demon of tremendous imagination. _(His hair was very soft.)_

Crawly asked too many questions. Questions about what Might Be and what Should Be, which Aziraphale felt uncomfortable contemplating. Somehow the demon saw what _wasn't_ when he looked what _was,_ and he could even foresee the forked possibilities of what _wasn't yet;_ it was a mystifying way to view the world, focusing on the negative space around reality.

At first the angel found it insulting to the Almighty Author to opine that the story should be different. He was a devoted reader and guardian of Her Word, but not an author himself, so he could not imagine it written any other way. He felt superior to any snake who dared to name flaws or inconsistencies in Her magnum opus.

But given time, as flood waters rose and war visited humanity and plagues swept the land _(as nails pierced sinless wrists at Golgotha)_ the demon asked What Sort Of Author Writes This Kind Of Story. The angel turned away in shame. Crawly had a point.

Aziraphale added worry about what Might Be to his repertoire, and became rather a virtuoso. Books of prophecy were his particular speciality.

Still, the angel clung to his love for the Word, even as the story grew darker and Heaven itself turned cold. He hoped all would be well in the end.

Perhaps that was why, when Crowley told him the last days were nigh, he smiled at first. There could be a conclusion then, to all this worry, to all this pain! A grand finale was coming, as promised, and the universe would be filled with peace and harmony at last. It would all be rather lovely. He took it as written. He was created to.

He never did have much imagination.

_(But then that's why She gave him Crowley.)_

"'Zirphle?" mumbled Crowley.

"Mm?"

"Whydjoustop." The demon's voice was muffled because his face was buried in the angel's left thigh. He sprawled boneless across the leather couch like he'd been poured there.

Aziraphale hummed in amusement and resumed combing his fingers through Crowley's hair. He had been petting him for nearly thirty minutes now, not a word spoken between them, and apparently he was still on duty.

"Just thinking about what you're good at," mused Aziraphale.

Crowley turned his head a bit to unbury his mouth, since they were talking again.

"Not good at things. 'Mbad at 'em. Very bad hellish'nfernal demon."

"Of course dear."

The angel retrieved his cognac from the end table and took a few thoughtful sips in the silence. The record had ceased its sonatas, but he didn't flip it; a little peace and quiet suited them now. The lighting in Crowley's place was pleasantly muted and the four A.M. world felt distant and safe.

 _Safe._ Poor in imagination though he was, he tried to picture a world in which the two of them were safe. Free. Now that they were on their own together -- _our side_ \-- the future held either extinction or...or what? He grasped at what might come next if their little ruse worked.

But it felt ephemeral. Unwritten. Agnes was better at looking ahead, really. Crowley too. Aziraphale was better at Now. He got caught up in pleasures and pains of the moment and couldn't see ahead. He looked down at the fiery red locks between his fingers and felt rich. The past grew more distant every minute. It was slowly fading into one vast epoch called Before Tonight.

"Sssssso...what'm I good at then?" asked the demon drowsily.

"What is the demon Crowley good at?" echoed Aziraphale. "Damned if I know. That's why I was thinking so hard."

Crowley gave him a sharp playful pinch under the thigh, failing to foresee the consequent knee jerk that disrupted his resting place. The demon scowled and resettled, shutting his eyes tight. Perhaps he wasn't _so_ sharp about the future.

"You're good at clever plans that backfire," continued Aziraphale. "Hair. Couture. Plant husbandry. Irritating me. Telephonic games involving anthropomorphized desserts."

"Can't husband plants, angel. It's animals only. That gets...husbanded."

"What does one do to plants then?"

"Discipline. Clear expectations. Aaaaand consequences."

"Ah. Well, hard to argue with results."

Crowley rolled onto his side and curled his legs up tighter. His couch had never been particularly comfortable before Aziraphale's miraculous overhaul a half hour ago, and he was taking full advantage. "What're you good at angel? ...B'sides drinkin' all my booze 'n bein' unfashionable."

"Hell if I know that either," said Aziraphale with a faint smile.

"Good at this." Crowley flicked a lazy wrist inexactly toward his own head. "Jusss keep it up an' there'll be no trouble." The angel applied his nails to the scalp just a bit, inspiring a quiet "mmmf" that pleased him.

Oh! _That's_ why everything seemed so quiet, realized Aziraphale. It had nothing to do with the flat or the hour or the record player. He surveyed his own spiritual state and found that his chattering stream of worry -- the one he'd tended since the Beginning -- had slowed to a trickle. He closed his eyes and walked the banks, wondering at the absence of the sound. He noted the psychological dams and footbridges he'd built over time to direct it, contain it, so he could function despite the ceaseless babbling brook of anxiety. But the flow had stopped. His mind felt pristinely still.

Perhaps this unprecedented lack of worry was making it hard to think ahead? Or perhaps having no idea what the future held gave him little to worry about. All was not well, but it was better than it had been in a long time. He drained his glass dry and twirled it by the stem thoughtfully.

"I'm quite good at fretting," said Aziraphale.

"Masterful in fact," supplied Crowley.

"But I'm not doing it now, that's the odd thing. Can't feel the -- the usual everyday anxiety."

Crowley twisted his shoulders to look up, squinting his eyes open. "Picked a funny time to quit. Right before your first visit to Hell."

"Well I don't know why, I'm sure."

"Spent it all the last few days maybe," said Crowley. "Actually that'd explain some things." He sat up with a heavy sigh, ignoring Aziraphale's put out expression.

"Explain what things?"

"Tonight. This." Crowley stood and meandered into the kitchen, leaving it at that. "More cognac or something else?" he called from the pantry.

It took the angel a confused beat to realize that he'd roused himself because the glass was empty.

Aziraphale started to protest that the cold spot on his lap wasn't worth a refill. Or that they could have just summoned the bottle. But once their cadence was interrupted, there was no sense forcing things. It was an ancient dance, this friendship, and the steps apart were as integral as the steps that brought them closer together.

The angel got up and followed to the kitchen.

"Actually I could do with a cup of tea, my dear." He came within arm's reach, but no closer, testing the charged atmosphere for what Crowley might tolerate. "And, er -- what say we bring a bottle of something back with us so we don't have to get up again?"

Crowley busied himself with a terribly modern electric kettle that sported more buttons than seemed necessary to boil water. He had been a frenzied up-and-down mess most of the night, a bit manic at times, but he'd mellowed nicely in the last thirty-odd minutes. Now his steps were slow and his voice dropped low. His hair was mussed and he had a crease across one cheek from lying still in perfect peace since...since.

Well, all it had taken was a spark of courage.

Aziraphale hadn't premeditated it. He was a creature of the moment, and his worry had apparently gone on sabbatical, so he simply...did what he wanted to do. It hadn't been difficult. And it had earned him a lapful of pliant (if disorientated) demon since.

Crowley pillaged the cupboards for cup, saucer, tea and sugar as the kettle began a low rumble. Nothing for it then but to wait two minutes. He leaned back against the fridge, tousled and lovely, golden eyes wandering the walls and avoiding the principality.

"So," he said, and cleared his throat at length.

"Shall I continue?" asked Aziraphale, smiling warmly.

"With what?"

"What you're good at."

_"No."_

"You're excellent at arguing with me."

"Am not," Crowley grumbled. A smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth.

"You see?"

"That was very poor arguing on my part, which proves my point."

"Point proven, and so you've won the argument, which proves _my_ point _."_

Crowley rolled his eyes magnificently. He was also very good at that, it should go on the list. "Angel, there's not a more trying bastard in Heaven and earth --"

"There's a reason I tell you that," Aziraphale rushed to say, hoping to find himself on solid ground after a little banter. "The arguing bit, I mean. I was just thinking, over on the sofa, I was thinking -- that it's a wonder you, you -- you argue so well. With me. A true talent."

There, eye contact at last. Crowley cocked an brow in puzzlement. Aziraphale pressed on, though he felt he was making a hash of it. "You proved so skilled in persuading me to...thwart you. Eleven years ago. And the Arrangement before that. You're a devious mastermind my dear, I've really got to hand it to you. Looking back on it all I'm glad of your -- persistence. Your patience with me. That's what I mean by --"

 _Beeeeeep_ interjected the kettle.

Crowley twirled neatly and caught it up to pour out with a flourish. His hands at work commanded all the angel's attention, they were really very distracting _(especially with the sleeves rolled up, red-gold hair and freckles flashing)_ and so the speech went unfinished. The angel rubbed at his own bare forearms, acutely aware of the exposed skin. A wisp of darjeeling steam plumed up between them from the teacup on the corner of the island.

Crowley filled the silence at last. "...You seemed to be going somewhere with that, angel; I'm all ears should you ever come to the point." He crossed his arms -- _tawny, gleaming, wiry,_ thought Aziraphale, there were so many wonderful words for those arms -- and he stepped in, a few inches closer than before, yellow eyes burning.

"Well I _was_ trying to compliment you, foul fiend!" Aziraphale fussed in mock indignation, tugging at his waistcoat. "But that tends to get me slammed into walls, so I was taking the roundabout approach."

Crowley considered this carefully, and his eyes sidetracked for an instant to the wall behind Aziraphale.

"Angel," he asked, drawing out each syllable, "are you fretting now?"

Aziraphale searched himself and answered truthfully: "No. It's strange. The worry channel has concluded its broadcast day."

"Fear of Heaven all used up?"

"I truly don't know. I've been tuned in to it since I can remember. But just now, it's gone quiet."

Crowley looked down, suddenly bashful, and fussed with the tea between them on the kitchen island. "So then, what you plan to -- ehm --" He added two lumps, stirred them in. He knew how his angel took it. "I mean, what do you want. Now."

Aziraphale readied for the mantle of fear to fall heavy on him the way it always did. He braced for that great _no_ to tighten his shoulders and steal his breath away. _But it wasn't arriving._ Why not? He should have been a twisting, tortured, tongue-tied mess.

Instead Aziraphale heard himself state in a mild, steady voice, "I'd rather like to kiss you again, Crowley."

He surprised himself saying that, but he thought about it, and decided it was true.

It had been quite lovely.

It had happened right where they were standing.

The action sliced time right in two, a new B.C. / A.D. just for them. Six thousand years on one side, thirty-three minutes on the other. And counting.

The demon flushed and stirred harder, spoon clinking furiously. "Nng. Would. Do you. Well."

"I do." The angel felt irrationally free from fear. It didn't seem right. But he was so light now. Open. Safe. He was speaking. "If you don't mind too terribly, that is."

"Well! Well that's -- I. The, ah." The cup clattered on the saucer.

"Darling, you'll shatter the china, that'll do." Aziraphale reached out and gently laid his hands over Crowley's to rescue the poor teacup.

Crowley surrendered the spoon but his hands hovered in the steam, barely touching Aziraphale's. They both looked, transfixed, at their curled and trembling fingers.

Between the bus, the body swap, the fireside chat, and the sofa, they had already touched more tonight than in their entire existence thus far. So many dynamics they'd practiced and perfected together, thousands of years of experience in a familiar dance, but this -- between them -- this was unrehearsed. Unprecedented.

Aziraphale resolved that if he couldn't imagine the future anymore, he'd best make what he could of the present.

With a feather-light touch he began to trail his fingers over the backs of Crowley's hands, tracing slow whorls and blooms -- running from knuckles out to fingertips, then stroking back up to the wrists, all ten tips grazing along at once. Around and around they went, like raking a rock garden or tracing henna patterns. The demon's breath caught with a half-sob sound. They looked up at one another.

Crowley's expression was desperate, confused, overwhelmed.

So Aziraphale summoned all the comfort he was created to hold and distilled it into an utterly angelic smile. He radiated serenity and safety and love, backed by an ancient inarguable power. This part at least he felt qualified for. _Peace, demon,_ he willed. _Fear not. I bring you great joy._

"Is this what you --" Crowley began, and could no more.

"Yes," said Aziraphale with beatific radiance in his eyes.

Crowley exhaled in a rush, half-collapsing as his knees buckled. But he held his hands in place and managed to spring upright again, as if his whole body were suspended from the angel's gentle touch. The demon's demeanor eased into a sort of alarmed wonder.

At length they both gazed down again at the ten flickering points of contact between them. Sparks of courage indeed.

Crowley turned his hands over, palms up.

Aziraphale focused with a knit brow as he leisurely traced the lines, crossed the creases, brushed fingertips into the sensitive L between thumb and index finger. He drew small fireworks in the unsteady demon's hands. He outlined each finger's edges as if drawing him in ink.

Then, daring greatly, he breached the line of the wrist and trailed gently -- so gently -- up pounding arteries all the way...to...the...elbow. There. He etched the elbow creases with his fingernails _(back and forth, seven times)_ knowing how a fine groove of sensory satisfaction lay just there. And then back again, he stroked ten light tracks _(sloooowly)_ down til they were fingertip to fingertip.

"Can I --" croaked Crowley hoarsely. Aziraphale smiled wide in assent.

Crowley didn't trace, he enfolded. He held the angel's hands with a shifting, snaking ever-moving grip -- caressing with thumbs, molding and massaging with heels, interlacing and unwinding their digits down to the V's of their roots. He turned the angel's hands over and over, cuffed his wrists gently, rubbed his lifelines in a soothing rhythm. Palm to palm. Holy palmers' kiss.

It seemed Crowley could only actually speak when it was his turn to do the touching.

"Angel," he murmured, very soft and deep. "You like this?"

"I do," said the angel.

A pained squint swept across Crowley's face. "And where is this going?"

"I'm not sure," confessed Aziraphale, meeting his gaze with disarming openness. "You're good at knowing what's next. I'm not. But I know that now is -- good. Now's good."

"Well then. You keep showing me what you want to do Now. Keep telling me." Crowley encircled Aziraphale's yielding wrists and slowly, firmly pressed up to the elbows, watching the skin pale and then flush in the wake of his grip. When he let go he trailed ten light fingertips, like the angel had, down and up and down his forearms.

Aziraphale moaned, the sound of the first taste of a meal. Threw his head back. "Oh my dear," he said, "it feels like champagne."

At that Crowley's throat clenched and he shivered, top to toe, but he gentled his hands as he grasped the angel's plush elbows, pressing thumbs into the hollows. Aziraphale stepped closer and reached up.

"May I touch your face?" he asked.

Crowley closed his eyes and nodded. As Aziraphale's right hand met the pillar of his neck he grimaced at the intensity of the sensation and bowed his head.

The angel brushed over each of Crowley's features slowly: lips, jaw, temples, sigil, marvelous nose, fierce eyebrows, delicate eyelids. He stroked along the jugular, followed the folds of the ear, and cupped a sharp cheekbone, which turned into his hand with a will. Aziraphale added a little pressure to answer and Crowley said "mmmf" again, catching the angel's wrists and rubbing his face cat-like against soft palms.

Aziraphale laughed gently and dug into the hair again, nails scratching leisurely furrows into the scalp all the way from brow to nape, then sanding his neck up and down. Crowley groaned and snapped his eyes open. Aziraphale felt pinned in the golden glare, thought that he must look a fool -- cherubic face lax and flushed, mouth half-open in contemplation of his subject. But when Crowley reached for him, growling faintly, he forgot himself.

The demon's fingertips were _everywhere._ Dancing up and down his neck, sifting his hair, feathering beneath his jaw and chin, where he was more sensitive than he'd ever imagined. Reincorporated by the Antichrist and promptly borrowed by his best friend like a Sunday suit, his body was still a bit new and tender around the edges. He felt a great spring tightening in his throat.

Crowley ran thumbs along Aziraphale's eyebrows, beneath his widened eyes, over his crow's feet; so frightfully intimate. Nobody had ever touched him there.

"Crowley," said the angel. No verb, only subject. The word. The word, in a new beginning.

Crowley's hands stilled, the right buried protectively in silvery curls, the left splayed across a soft cheek. His thumb fit perfectly under the shelf of the angel's lower lip. Their eyes locked and they waited for several heartbeats, breathing in unison.

"What are you thinking, angel?" asked Crowley.

"That you're good at this," said Aziraphale.

Then the Guardian of the Eastern Gate parted his lips and gave the Serpent of Eden's thumb the faintest possible impression of a kiss.

Something went wrong with the gravity. _Someone ought to look into that,_ Aziraphale thought. They were falling -- pushing? Pulling? No, Crowley was _lifting_ him half off his feet -- and then his back struck the polished concrete wall. Floor? Wall. Which way was up? The heat would know. Rather hot. The heat should rise, he could watch for the shimmering waves of it to know for sure.

 _(Tends to get me slammed into walls.)_ Oh! The wall. Quite.

Aziraphale's senses wouldn't settle; he felt shaken like a snow globe. He was shaking too. It would be all right, he wasn't worried, Crowley was there -- one hand behind his head, Crowley wouldn't let it hit, not ever --

His chest felt tight and knees went loose and _one couldn't quite stand alone, could one,_ what a relief Crowley was allllll pushed up against him now, toes to shoulders, wouldn't want to fall --

They were forehead to forehead, nose to nose --

It was hard to see this way with Crowley's eyes so loud, _wait_ \-- the eyes weren't loud they were _bright,_ so bright this close up; the loud must be the ragged breath or else -- who was breathing harshly like that, whose blood was making so much noise? Couldn't be him. The scent of colors he'd never seen filled up -- wait -- or had he only seen them with other eyes, no, _wait_ \-- with lips and tongue when --

Language failed him as his thoughts fell to pieces. Dimly Aziraphale sensed he was waiting for something. Waiting for Crowley. His eyes flitted downward and oh, of course, it was that. Crowley was waiting too. Aziraphale opened his mouth, closed his eyes, and leaned in to taste.

Kissing was strange at first.

It was exactly what one would imagine smashing lips and tongues would feel like, really. In fact it would have been shockingly mundane _except_ that it seemed connected to the way his head was buzzing now, floating a bit. And there was some funny crackling energy building in his chest. He was channeling a powerful electrical current, or maybe standing deep in white water rapids, power and motion sweeping through and around him. Aziraphale wasn't sure he was doing it right, but he hoped so. The touch was so ordinary yet it seemed to make extraordinary things happen all over.

And Crowley -- Crowley seemed hungry. And he tasted _so good._

Crowley pulled back, not far, and raised an unsteady index finger to stroke down the angel's cheek and chin. "Relax just here," he whispered. They started again -- slower this time -- and oh, good, now the action itself was ringing with pleasure too. Someone was generating a thrilling array of sounds but it was hard to tell who as the vibrations sang in two throats pressed together. Time was unraveling some in the heat, going all nonlinear and hard to measure, just like In The Beginning.

That is to say, they made out for a very long while.

When they paused for breath at a natural interval it was dark outside. Aziraphale foggily wondered what day it was. They let their foreheads fall together as the first frenzy ebbed. Crowley rocked them gently left to right, snakelike, not a gap between their settling bodies from head to heel.

"Tea's gone cold," said Crowley after a stretch.

"I didn't need your help for that," said the angel. "I forget every third cup perfectly well on my own, thank you."

Crowley laughed a long honest laugh, exhausted, bewildered, relieved. He buried his head in the crook of Aziraphale's neck. The laugh had hitches like cries in it.

"Oi, angel." Crowley sniffed wetly on his shoulder. "It's been a long time."

Aziraphale pet his back up and down in soothing ellipses. "Well. You know how it is. Some doors one leaves closed. While one must."

"I know, angel. I know."

"You do."

Crowley straightened up, stepped away, and took the angel's hands with sober intent. Aziraphale felt a chill everywhere he'd just been.

"I promised you earlier I'd tell you about it," said Crowley, staring boldly, sauntering backwards toward the couch.

He tugged his angel along and settled them both on the sofa. With a snap he dimmed the lights further and summoned the tea. Aziraphale seized upon it happily and it began to steam all over again. He sipped it in unhurried peace and settled into the couch. "So. Remind me what it was you promised, my dear?" he asked.

Crowley answered by taking off his scarf and chain and waistcoat with a few swift tugs, tossing them every which way. Then he pivoted on the edge of the couch, facing away from the angel, and crossed his arms to pull the vest and henley over his head.

"Oh -- _oooh,_ oh my _dear,"_ whispered Aziraphale. He reached out to touch.

Crowley had made his back a canvas. A scroll. A waystone. A cave wall. He was inked with his adaptation of Her story: the parts he loved, the parts that made him burn with fury, the winding years between.

There were no words in any language, it was mostly abstract -- ornaments within ornaments that _referred_ and _suggested_ rather than told. The ink spread down his back all the way to the base of the spine, licked across his shoulders and around his triceps, just barely graced his elbows.

Only at the core of the work was the art representational. Two long angled slashes of black, like brush strokes, like tree bark wounds, traced the shoulderblades exactly where his wings would emerge. And between them nestled a great silhouetted tree, out of which the whole design grew. It was The Tree. It was about the size of the human heart. Its roots descended down as far as its branches reached up, true to the understanding of the snake who had seen the garden from below as well as above.

In the black canopy of leaves nested small crescents and sparks of negative space -- apples? Birds? Moons? The rings of planets? Novae? The windows of white implied the possibility of each, but detailed none.

The rest was embellishment springing riotously from the branches and roots. There were vents of finest stained glass detail and crosshatching; there were also thick slashes of ink like claws or flaming blades, all of it balanced but none of it symmetrical. The entire work was borne out by one continuous black uncoiling line.

The angel knew there was no legible symbology here beyond the Tree, but he understood the story just the same. He could read every line. He saw himself in the scrollwork: here, and here, and there. Encounters and memories and decisions.

He let his fingers walk the ink for a very long time.

"Tell me," he said.

"I am telling you," Crowley answered.

"So you are." Aziraphale touched the starlike symbols among the branches. "You have such imagination."

"Started not long after Joshua. Bits and pieces, when I traveled, I tried to get some from everywhere. Last sitting was about ten years back in Morocco." Aziraphale ran fingers down the back of Crowley's left arm, reading what he found there: a baby, a contract, fear, rebellion, a careful temptation -- help from an unexpected quarter. That knot, just there. A handshake.

"So you have humans do it for you?"

"Of course. They're the artists."

Aziraphale let his mind drift through the millennia of human artistry represented in Crowley's collection, right here in the flat. "The finished work is....truly something."

"Not finished yet."

"We're not, are we," murmured Aziraphale.

He flattened his hands on Crowley's back and dug the heels in, starting to smooth and knead the skin in broad strokes. Crowley leaned back into it with a groan.

"Angel, would you --" he bit off some request and rolled a shoulder uncomfortably.

Aziraphale paused, palms at rest. "...Well?"

The demon chuckled and scrubbed his face with his hands. "It's so ridiculous, but I've got an itch. At the center. Could you give it a good hard scratch?"

Aziraphale had already begun, manicured nails dug in with a will, and Crowley preened and purred happily. "Oh, that's good. Yeah, up a little -- left -- yeah -- _aaaaaaaaaaaufgh._ That's it, you got it, thank hea -- hell -- thank fuck." Aziraphale laughed at him as the vibration in their bodies oscillated the couch. He kept scratching larger and larger circles til the gaps of uninked skin went rosy and Crowley stretched his arms to the ceiling in uncomplicated delight. The demon half-yawned.

"You're good at _that,_ angel, if nothing else. I'm keeping you on call in future." Future. Hopefully. If they had any.

As Aziraphale let the scratch of fingernails fade to the press of fingertips, Crowley twisted -- his spine was kaleidoscopic in motion, laced with black -- and rested a hand on Aziraphale's knee. "Could we get more comfortable?" he asked.

"Love to, darling. What do you suggest? You are the noted expert when it comes to reclining."

Crowley cocked his head and clicked his fingers. The couch found itself converted into a wide curved chaise longue, no longer leather but softly upholstered and plush. It looked entirely out of place in Crowley's apartment, and Aziraphale's happy sigh as he admired it filled the room. Crowley summoned the cognac, too, poured them both one more.

"Remember Rome?" he said. _"They_ knew how to recline."

Aziraphale remembered Rome. He smiled to beat the band and wiggled back against the support that curved up to meet him. He toed off his shoes, threw one foot up on the chair, left the other on the floor.

Crowley sat right between the angel's legs, vanished his shoes with a thought, put hands behind his head, and began to lie back onto Aziraphale's chest. He popped back up with a yelp as soon as they made contact.

"Pocket watch!" he exclaimed. "Very cold chain."

"Oh, of course! So sorry, dearest --" Aziraphale sent his waistcoat and watch somewhere across the room, neatly folded of course.

Crowley sighed in relief and they lay back again in tandem. _Oh,_ could the man sprawl. And Aziraphale was learning he quite liked being demonically sprawled upon. The back of Crowley's head settled heavily in the nook of his shoulder, and he felt utterly spoiled.

"Shall I fan you and feed you grapes now, Serpent of Eden?" he asked, wanting to extend the sentiment. He raked fingers through the soft red hair now just under his chin, sometimes letting his hand wander down that long wiry neck and across the bare collarbone.

"Got grapes already." He pointed at his drink on the table with a _gimme gimme_ gesture, and the angel obliged. They toasted and drank very slowly, barely a drop at a time, in no hurry to see the sun rise.

When Crowley's glass was empty at last he flung the crystal up in the air carelessly (it never landed) and nuzzled his way under the angel's chin. His nose caught under the bowtie and he blew an exasperated puff of air at it. "Permission to remove this ridiculous thing before it puts an eye out?"

Aziraphale hummed consent and set down his cognac, and Crowley reached for the knot. First one-handed, sexy and gentle, then a little less gentle, then he sat up and twisted to apply two hands, then he got a finger caught somehow. Aziraphale let him flounder with some amusement until he got elbowed in the solar plexus.

"Oof! Crowley, dear," he said, pushing the demon away, "for someone so invested in fashion, you really ought to try real garments from time to time. Ties aren't so difficult. How on earth did you manage to -- ah, there it goes." Crowley sneered in distaste as the angel carefully folded the tie and set it on the coffee table. Aziraphale pecked a kiss on his wrinkled-up forehead and lay back again.

"Feh," grunted Crowley.

He twisted further, got up on one knee, and splayed a hand on the sofa just behind the angel's head. "You're soft," he said, working open the top two buttons of the age-old dress shirt.

Aziraphale glanced down at his torso and fretted. "I know."

"Noooo," said Crowley, shaking his head. "Not that." He pressed a kiss into the angel's brow, right where he staged his worry. "I mean you're _soft."_

Crowley let his body sink again, chest to chest this time, a sauntering descent. They fell together. The demon writhed just a bit until he clicked into some satisfying Crowley-shaped groove and stilled: a wheel ready on a track, a key held in a lock, a perfect fit. Aziraphale thought he understood now.

He held Crowley's head in the hollow sculpted for it under his jaw. He cradled the shoulders crafted to slot into his arms just so. He felt their legs relax offset in the perfectly carved space to suit each limb. It felt entirely satisfying, like pulling on a tailored jacket, like holding a perfectly balanced pen, like eating a bite of exactly what you'd been craving. The fit was right. They breathed together.

Crowley muttered something muffled into his neck.

"Pardon?"

"I said, I live here now."

"Welcome home."

Crowley sighed a choked sort of sigh that carried at least five feelings at once, four of them very good.

That floating sensation was returning now with each inhale, a charge of ambient energy, a shimmering fog steadily clouding Aziraphale's mind. He let his head fall back and his limbs go slack as it washed over him. This was nice. At length Crowley shifted, slowly, carefully -- he buried one arm beneath Aziraphale's back and reached up with the other to touch his curls. Then he leaned in to kiss that exposed soft throat, right where the top button and bowtie always hid it from view.

"That's lovely," said Aziraphale.

Crowley began gently massaging his neck beneath the collar with one hand, gripping the flesh at his waist with the other, and kissing more and more of any skin he could reach -- that felt lovely too, so the angel dug his hands between the demon's sharp shoulderblades to draw him closer. Crowley surged up a few inches, gripping the chaise back for leverage, leading with his mouth, and Aziraphale felt a rich golden shudder sweep his entire frame. So many lovely things to try, and everything just kept getting lovelier as they went on.

He wondered what Crowley would find lovely. He remembered what it had been like wearing that corporation, just a few hours ago. Remembered what he'd learned. Aziraphale reached for a handful of red hair and stroked -- and then scratched -- and then _tugged_.

 _"Awhhh_ chuh," gasped Crowley, sounding not at all suave, as his entire body jerked with the shock of it. "O- _oh,"_ moaned Aziraphale at the same time, finding that his own body had liked that jolt of pressure very much. He clutched Crowley to him tight and the demon shook, completely out of control.

 _Lovely_.

Crowley reared up to his level, eyes wild with surprise, mouth agape. Their chests were wedged apart now but their legs crushed even closer together and that felt _Very_. _(Yes_.) _Much_. intensified as their gazes locked. There was a familiar blazing spark in those serpentine pupils, the fire that meant a demonic snarl was building. That was the look that had got the angel thrown up against a number of walls over a number of millennia.

He thought he quite liked that look right now.

"Angellll," Crowley growled, glaring.

Aziraphale met his gaze with bold certainty: _I dare you._

He wasn't worried. All was well.

"Crowley," said Aziraphale in a voice that sounded far too calm for a being coursing with sunbursts of energy just under the skin. What a _feeling_ this was.

"What are you thinking, angel?" hissed the Serpent of Eden, breathing hard. He shifted his nubile hips just so and arched his neck involuntarily as pulsing aurorae swept through both of them.

Aziraphale grabbed a handful of hair again and pulled their faces closer. He looked from eyes to lips and back.

"I think --" he kissed Crowley deeply, made him whine low in his throat.

"I think you are, for me --" he tried again. But he absolutely couldn't leave Crowley's jawline unkissed for another moment, so that was as far as he got. The demon grabbed at the couch impatiently.

One more try, with a glint of teasing smugness in his eyes. "I think you're so very _gooood_ at --"

 _"Fffffuck!"_ yelled Crowley.

This time the kisses came to him. Crowley flew into a passionate fury, growling and clawing and pushing and devouring. The aurora shimmering through the angel's nervous system built to distant heat lightning as they kissed so hard he couldn't breathe. He felt the effort he mostly ignored growing hot, sensitive, centering itself more and more in his senses.

Crowley was as close as he could be, crushing them against the sofa, tongue deep in his mouth, but somehow Aziraphale wanted him even closer. He pinned his friend by clutching between his shoulderblades, but his skin cried _more, closer,_ so his hands slipped lower. When he touched denim he felt indignant. What on earth was that doing there? Interrupting that smooth skin, concealing the glorious black tendrils of their story? How utterly gauche.

Without hesitation, he slipped flattened fingers beneath the waistband and gripped the finest arse in creation as if his life depended on it. _There,_ finally! He found the pressure he was craving. Crowley made a desperate bleating sound and shook so hard their teeth clacked. He wrenched himself up on his elbows, gasping for air, and shivered there panting. A drop of salt water beaded on his nose and threatened to fall.

Aziraphale coolly reclaimed a hand and began unbuttoning his own shirt now that there was room. His clothing was starting to twist and overheat uncomfortably. Crowley seemed to be trying to help, but he was so keyed up he could only paw uselessly. He began to chuckle, then laughed himself breathless. Aziraphale grinned.

Crowley pushed back on his haunches so the shirt could come off, seeing as there wasn't much way around it. "We are such idiots," he groaned, and ran his fingers through his own hair. It was a bit of a disaster by this time. "What is happening right now? Is this happening?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale without hesitation.

"This is a day, I tell you."

"Unforgettable." Aziraphale finished with his own buttons and found Crowley's clothing far more interesting now that it was accessible. He sat up off the chaise and reached for where those long legs straddled him. Crowley startled, eyes wide.

"Ngk! ccchhsZiraphff --" he said in a choked voice.

Aziraphale undid the top button, taking care with the pressing heat of Crowley's effort. He was touched when it seemed to reach for him all on its own.

"Mind the -- z-zip fly -- one of ours --" stammered the insensible demon. He gripped the edge of the couch and sucked air in and out through his teeth. When soft bookworn fingers made contact with his cock at last to free it, he wailed and ducked his head, arching at the intensity of the feeling.

He looked up at his angel and then reached out as well, placed a palm just there, where he knew it ached, and watched Aziraphale's eyes roll back and his neck twist. He fumbled for a moment with the top hook of well-loved vintage trousers -- then lost his patience and snapped.

That is, he tried to. His hands were sweaty and shaking, so it took him three tries. But he got them both freed in the end.

Crowley lunged forward to dive in, pushing Aziraphale back, but he caught himself and hung in the air for a moment, braced on hands and knees. They hadn't seen one another naked in at least a thousand years, and even then it had been just moments, flashes, at a distance in the countryside or at the baths. He made steady focused work of appreciating the angel below him by sight, by scent, before his return to the touch of yielding silk flesh.

Aziraphale reached up with reverent fingertips to explore Crowley's clavicle, sternum, shoulders, the join of his long neck.

When he trailed down to the ribs Crowley doubled up and barked a laugh. _"Don't!_ Don't you dare!"

His angel's eyes flashed and he reached again.

Crowley grabbed his wrists and shied away, and they tussled hand to hand as he roared: _"Rrrrragh,_ No no no no NO, I hate it, and you'll think it's funny cos I'll laugh but I'll be hating it, and I'll fucking hate you and --"

They were both aware of the celestial power differential between their bodies, they'd fenced and boxed and moved furniture; but they'd never grappled before. Aziraphale found himself thinking words like _'cute'_ as the demon tried to restrain his arms. It was like that rather inspiring statue down the hall. He toyed with Crowley for a minute, giggling, a competitive fierce delight rising in him as he thought of every time the demon had wound him up and tormented him with teasing.

He let his hands be caught by his captor, let his fists be pinned by their thighs as if he were helpless, and enjoyed Crowley's cackle of victory. Then he moved.

The cackle changed to a whoop and a hiss as Crowley found himself lifted entirely into the air by his hips. In one motion Aziraphale sat forward, tipped him over, and stood them both up, easy as scruffing a kitten. A rather belligerent, unwieldy kitten with terribly long legs squirming around his waist. A kitten with a multilingual swearing vocabulary being put to good use.

"You do _not_ fight fair! You unmitigated eternal bastard! Put me _down_ you preposterous --"

Aziraphale obligingly let go with both arms, but Crowley clung to his torso like a flustered tarsier.

"I didn't mean -- don't _drop_ me, you great heavenly lummox, you're supposed to --"

"I'm supposed to?" laughed Aziraphale. "Supposed to what, serpent?"

Crowley grabbed a fistful of angel hair hard and growled low in his throat. "You are the _most_ fucking infuriating. I should have known." He kissed Aziraphale hard, wide-mouthed, and bit his lip just a little. He bit back.

"'Kay. Bed. That way. _Now!"_ ordered Crowley, scowling and pointing aggressively.

Aziraphale clasped the demon's corded thighs and pulled him up snug to walk down the hall, and if he indulged himself in a little self-satisfied tilt of his chin -- the one that meant he had the high ground -- who could blame him?

The sky was paling to grey outside, but the bedroom was still fairly dark. Reluctant to pry off his clingy cargo, Aziraphale sat down on the foot of the bed and treated himself to a lapful of glowering Crowley.

"You think you're cute, but you're not," fumed the demon.

"You are," said Aziraphale, and kissed him on the nose.

He growled. Aziraphale kissed him properly and felt the sound vibrate deep in his own throat, like a purr. He applied his nails to Crowley's back again, first just a little shiver, then a good deep hearty scratch all over. The growl reluctantly mellowed into a helpless groan. They held one another and kissed deeper and deeper.

Finally Crowley detangled himself and clambered further up the bed. Aziraphale followed and they laid down side by side, pressed all together -- and _here_ was the best part. This was dessert. Aziraphale keened in delight and tasted deeply.

There was no need to trouble themselves with anything new or complicated; after all the excitement of the evening, this was quite enough. There were other delights to sample if they lived another day. For now, they held onto each other for dear life, moving together slowly, channelling the heat and power of arousal. Their skin sang with the mounting charge of thousands of years' patience.

Crowley shook all over as he sucked and licked at the angel's shoulders, ran his hands over his belly and back, ground their trapped cocks together slowly. Aziraphale clenched Crowley's buttocks tight, they were his new obsession; how they felt, how his grip there pressed the two of them so hard against each other, how that press generated the rising feeling that was fast becoming the favorite of all his insatiable appetites.

This was better than food, better than books, better than baths. He felt his body could barely contain the thundering electrical storm crashing within, whipped on by Crowley's whimpers and moans.

"Oh darling, I'm --" Aziraphale had nearly said _'I'm afraid'_ or _'I'm sorry to say,'_ just verbal tics, but he banished those words from this place now and forever. He started fresh. "I don't believe -- this can go on -- much longer --" he managed with strained breath, shuddering as Crowley rutted harder up against him.

"Don't want it to," gasped Crowley. "Been waiting. For this."

At that Aziraphale pinned him down, rolled on top, and let the sturdy weight of his body grind them together into sparks. Crowley began to shout in his ear, _ah, ah, ah_ \-- the friction and the feeling kept wrapping them tighter, tighter, Aziraphale gripped Crowley's hip and prayed he wouldn't crush it in the overwhelming drive to _compress_ into oneself -- into him -- into each other --

He felt every cell of his body like a Himalayan singing bowl, flesh bellstruck and ringing with the rhythm -- gleaming, ancient, golden, vibrating, building, circling, cresting; the sound _overcame_ him --

"Crowley -- _Crowley --"_ he sobbed.

 _"Angel!_ Ahh, _hhaaaah --"_ called his love.

The first light of dawn hit their skin as they arched and clung and cried and collapsed together.

Aziraphale was brand new. There were not many revelations left to an eternal being, but this -- this was unlike anything he'd known. He let himself settle, lax as he'd never been, wondering if he was in fact a different being now. He stroked Crowley's hair with a trembling hand and felt rich.

Eventually Crowley shifted under him, kissed his temple. "All right, you?"

"All's well," said the angel. "You?"

"Hmmmnft."

They untangled enough that no limbs would go numb, and Crowley pulled up a thin blanket to cocoon them together. He turned and pressed his storied back against Aziraphale's heart. They found the alignment that fit them, key and lock, and they breathed slow.

"Could get used to this," murmured Crowley.

Aziraphale kissed the base of his neck. "I imagine so."

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! And stunned I had the audacity to post this. I'm @charlottemadison42 on Tumblr and I am so gone on these guys.
> 
> My AU project, HS English teacher Aziraphale/cool Uncle Crowley, has just begun here if you enjoy that sort of thing: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22557148/
> 
> Thank you!


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